Covers

Books have covers.

Maybe people do, too.

It was a chilly February day.

She was young, tall, brisk.

Her blonde hair (over roots)

was pulled back in a scunchied blob.

The white linen shorts

focused attention on the tanned calves.

Cashmere sweater thrown across the shoulders

spoke their own message.

To top it all off,

the silver Mercedes triad

confirmed, “Money.”

So much to experience, so many lessons ahead,

some hard to learn.

Being raised in privilege and plenty

can muddy the waters

and make the stream harder to cross.

Maybe the story started in her book

already has its pain and struggle.

How would I know?

Books have covers.

Maybe I peeped out from under

mine to sneak a peek under hers today.

The Request

What does a girl need? Some need lipstick, highlights, perfume, or jewelry. Today some need “space” to “find themselves” or to become all they can be. Are those just American girls’ dreams?

I sat in a wooden folding chair on a covered concrete pad facing a dusty hard pan clay street. A tall, thin young Ugandan girl walked up to the railing and her dark eyes rested on me. She might have been thirteen or fourteen I thought. In her hand was a white piece of paper folded up about credit card size. “I have something for you,” she said. She waited as I unfolded it and read it. Our eyes met again while my mind whirled. Had I been in the USA, I was thinking, this would be a come-on for money. In essence, it was an ask for money, and we had been warned a hundred times this would come. The note said I was her last hope. Were I in the States, I would have bet her father or pimp would beat her brutally if she returned home without the cash. But this was rural Africa, and what the girl asked for was to get back into school. In the US, that alone would have told me it was a scam.

 I mumbled something about needing my glasses and fled inside the guest house to hunt for someone to guide me. In the tiny kitchen, I thrust the piece of notebook paper under Flora’s nose and asked, “Is this legit?” Her dark eyes widened as she read. “It could be,” she said. “I don’t know.” And those dark eyes looked into mine again. Talk about feeling lost and helpless. I couldn’t send my young guest back into a beating, and I didn’t want to feed a scam. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around such a thing as a bright young girl not being allowed to finish high school because she couldn’t pay overdue fees. 

In rural Uganda, high schools are far apart. Few students get to attend them. First of all, this area is a culture of subsistence farming — all is done by hand and ox plow. No electricity, no running water. It costs a bit more than a goat to pay for school fees for one child per term. There are three terms a year. Also, the mode of transportation is walk, walk, or walk. Yes, there are bicycles and dirt bikes to hire, if you have the money. Most money is saved up to buy food in the dry season when nothing grows. If you are a teen who wants to finish high school, you do farm chores, walk the miles to and from school, do farm chores, and then the sun sets. (Five-thirty sunrise, sunset on the equator.) No electricity, no running water, no time for lessons. On the other hand, if your parents can pay, you can board near a high school so that you can actually do the reading and homework by electric light. Boarding is another goat per term. Six goats per year per teenager, families are typically big, and help is needed in the fields. Everyone celebrates when a boy is born, and my friend is a girl. I guess her dad figured she wasn’t worth it, as he apparently got a job, moved away, and lives with someone else now. These things I did not know at the time. All I knew was (let’s call her) Lily asked for help to get back into school.  

“Take it to Papa,” Flora suggested. “Papa” is the honorific given to the head man in a group. I rushed like a mouse in a maze to find the towering Ugandan man who led our time in Africa. I found him in an overstuffed chair in the parlor. He quietly took the paper as I stumbled over my questions. He finished, looked up at me, oh, those dark eyes again, and waited for my questions. “Is this a legitimate request?” I asked. My heart stopped when he immediately answered, “Most likely.” He let that sink in. “In fact it is a typical situation here that students here cannot finish high school because of the cost.” I replied, “So you are telling me that for a hundred dollars I can change this girl’s life?” Those dark eyes nodded. I breathed deeply and returned his nod.

 It was Friday evening and on Monday, we would check with Lily’s school to verify her status. I had to return to the veranda and tell her that we would check out her story, but the answer was no until then. Silent tears welled in her dark eyes. My chest thundered with sadness and fears for her. I think we both went to sleep heavy-hearted that night. Later on I found out her story was accurate, but also the future of her country hung on teenagers like her and her fellow students. So we asked Lily to come back in to talk with us. She was actually sixteen. Papa asked tough questions, laid out strict rules. Lily nodded without hesitation to each direction. Again, this was no American teenager. At the end of our conversation, the lights dancing in those eyes and the smile that lit her face was brighter than any darkness. My heart sings when I think of her.

All this girl needs is a chance. And that’s all she’s asking for.

If you would like to contribute to building a youth hostel near the local high school, please visit givesendgo.com/ugandayouthhostel

Why Merry Christmas?

Merry Christmas!

He came.

He’s coming back!

Hallelujah!

Perhaps it’s best not to think of what we “get” from Jesus, the baby in the hay, when we think of Christmas. Lights, tinsel, cha-ching cha-ching, food running out our ears, family that’s warm and friendly or not. The baby gets pretty much ignored. He grew up, did amazingly kind things. Then, you know, we killed Him, last time He was here. He’s coming back. And this time, He’s not coming back as a gentle lamb. Whaaaat? How’s that Peace on Earth? And when do I get mine?

The good news first. He’s coming to take care of, provide for, and protect His own. He’s coming to clear out the barn. Any good farmer or father does that, right? That’s good, right? Well, it kinda depends on which side of the pitchfork you are on.

For each of us, there’s a mighty canyon ahead. Unavoidable. Sometimes we know we are close to the brink and just slip off. Other times we go cannon balling right over the edge without a blink. As for where we wind up, the die is cast at the second our foot loses contact with the ground.

When He comes this time, all eyes will see His power. Can you look and see His heart now? He comes for His. He will take all who are His and all that is His to Himself, to the kingdom He built specifically for them, where He will love, protect and provide for them forever. 

Then there remain His enemies. That’s the other side of the pitchfork. Who complains when the farmer composts the muck and washes down the stalls? Who denies the right of the Creator the right to deal with His creation, with His enemies, with those who harm and hurt the innocent and despise the poor, those who insist that they know more than He does? For these, the rim of His robe will be sodden with blood (Revelation 19:11-16) and the earth will be washed with fire. Not funny.

I’m eager to see Jesus in the full beauty of the Messiah and be swept up into His arms forever. Yet as I look at His enemies, my guts roll. I’m relieved that no life will be compromised by them anymore: no more harassment, insult, injury, pain, suffering. Demons, well, I’m pretty sure about how I think I’ll feel about them getting theirs: kinda like cheering when Clint Eastwood or John Wayne polishes off one of those bad guys who “needed killin.” But for people, although I do not relish seeing any human destroyed, I know it must be. Each made his choice, one at a time. In a just universe, there must be consequences, results, of actions, good or bad. If there’s no justice, there’s no peace. And, Father was clear that He takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked (Ezekiel 18:32 and 33:11, Jeremiah 32:38-41.) Yet, He will not permit evil to live through out eternity (Psalm 5:4-6.)

The offer stands open: the baby, born to live for us and and die for us, grew up. He fulfilled His purpose of paying for our faults, failures and mule-headedness. Can you see Him, humble, gentle, in the joyful image of new life itself? That’s what He offers us. New life. Real life. Forever life in a kingdom of kindness, sufficiency, and good.

So then, why this Christmas card on a public space? I’m very happy, rejoicing that He is coming back. I sincerely hope you are happy about it too, or perhaps will give some thought this Christmas to the seriousness of His birth and ramifications of His return, before your foot slips off the edge of the cliff. I hope we all will think of questions and find someone to ask, even God Himself maybe. I’d really like to know you in the land of peace, and I can hardly stand to think of the consequences for those who decide this is malarkey or an article that should not be written or read.

Sincerely wishing you a

                   Merry Christmas,

             Bigger Pieces.

Trail Watch

Alone on the trail,

not a body from north

to south until I reached the 

swamp where boys from the

development resurrect Francis Marion’s

Swamp Fox glories, I stopped 

and the silence 

that had kept me company

was burnished by a faint rustle.

I stood rock still in hopes

of seeing black bead-like

eyes, or rusty fur or feathers.

I heard another rustle

as silver circles skittered across 

the silken swamp surfaces. 

Shelter was a quarter of an hour away

as God rolled a cast iron tub 

across the floor boards of the sky.

Tiny stings chilled my cheeks.

Plump drops spattered my hair, 

Black asphalt, now ghost gray,

held ebony tree tops

captive in the wet sheen.

A soaked rider passed me; our 

eyes met, we shook our heads, 

and a grin bounced between 

us as wind and water 

drenched us in mirth.

Swamp Rabbit Trail

February 18, 2021

“God Is Dead”

proclaimed Nietzsche in the 1880’s, riding on the coattails of other philosophers enthusing over the Enlightenment. The phrase was ballyhooed in the USA in the 1950’s and ‘60’s, dying out in the ‘70’s, according to Wikipedia, third only to marketing gurus and Hollywood in forming American popular opinion.

I would tell you that I was going to tell you “the real truth,” but that might support the popular opinion today that there is more than one truth. There isn’t.

I think I remember this slogan plastered on billboards sometime during those years of the heyday of the Viet Nam War. If I could mount a billboard campaign today, it would show a picture of the “God Is Dead” billboard with a few additions.

The “God Is Dead” would be written in black, with a red stroke of paint through the “Is” and a “Was” printed above it. Under that it would say, “But He’s not anymore, and He’s coming back.”

God was dead

He’s not anymore

He’s coming back

Do you feel outraged or confused by the comment, “God was dead?” Let me share with you what some have told me. A Muslim man walked away shouting over his shoulder, ”God does not die!” I understand that most Muslims believe that Allah does not, cannot have a son, and consequently that Jesus, whom they acknowledge to be a sinless prophet, seated at their God’s right hand, and coming back as Messiah, is not their God’s son. But my question to you, and to him, is, “Who tells his God what He cannot do?”

Similarly a Jewish friend of mine tells me God cannot be Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The concept of God expressing Himself in three persons confuses my friend, but he himself is brother, son, father, husband, and more. But my question to you, and to him, is, ”Who tells his God who He cannot be?”

I’m not saying God has limits. I personally am so blown away by the tiny bit that I do know of Him that I wouldn’t be willing to speculate on whatever the totality of His existence might encompass. I do know from His self-revelations that there are things He has committed Himself to, for example: righteousness and justice, mercy and faithfulness (Psalm 89:14.)

So why not look into His self-revelation to figure out if indeed, “Can God die?” In talking to His disciples, Jesus explicitly states that to see Him is to see what God looks like: “Whoever has seen Me has seen the Father,” (John 14:9b.) The author of Hebrews concurs in Hebrews 1:3, “He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of His nature, and He upholds the universe by the word of His power. After making purification for sins, He sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high.(ESV)” Even the Roman centurion who was present when the spear was driven in Jesus’s side to check if He were dead recognized Jesus as Son of God (Matthew 27:54 and Mark 15:39.) So Jesus, in addition to all His wisdom and miraculous healings, asserted that He is Son of God, a manifestation of God Himself.

So far we have that Jesus was God (yes, hard to figure) and died (yes, hard to figure.) But there are those who figure dying as a sign of weakness. What if Jesus’s dying and coming back to life (five hundred eye-witnesses, 1 Corinthians 15:6) were actually as sign of overwhelming power, unimaginable life? As if maybe crushing out death under His heel like an ember popped out of an autumn fire was nothing to Him? What if God could do such a thing, any time He chose? He said He did. Why couldn’t He, and who is anyone to tell Him He couldn’t? He said He did. He said He did it for you and me. He said He knew you and I couldn’t handle it down here, so He took care of it by dying for us, in our place, because buddy, you and I are totally messed up, beyond repair. We need a do-over, and He generously offers it freely. When you stand before Him, what will you say to a God who can die and live again anytime He wants to? Do you think you will try explain that you underestimated Him or just couldn’t figure out how He could be or do what He said He was and did? I think I’ll tell Him I think He’s astounding, and beautiful, and perfectly right about everything, and that I love Him and, probably, the most exquisite and heart felt, “Thank You” that I can muster, if I can speak at all.

See you there. Hope you are standing next to me. (If you can see Him for who He is and see yourself for who you are, all you have to do is politely ask.)

Beulah Mae

Dear Snakebite,

Them yaller lily pads

bloomed real good this year

and the bullfrogs are 

courtin, some got little

black taddy poles already.

The wild white roses draping

the pasture fence where we

lay in the sun done dropped

petals and are seedin. 

The Joe Pyes are gettin tall and

the purply ironweed are just up.

The cow got into some

bitterweed so the milk 

was a mite tart,

but it still made hush 

puppies to go with the 

fish from the creek.

It’s good here, but not as 

good as when you were here.

The hootie owl called, “Whoo-

Whoo-Who-cooks-for-you,”

all through the night that

you left. I thought

I was gonna die,

but I didn’t. Hope

you do good in the city

and come home soon.

Your Mama says howdy.

The baby’s kicking good.

Forever your Beulah Mae.

June 11-October 30, 2020

Praying for New York

The Tower and bridges were lit pink
in joy just a year ago. 
Jubilation over abortion at will.

Now three hundred thousand have 
Coronavirus number nineteen and
I need to pray
for them.

What shall I pray for those who 
voted, “Yes, let’s invite death?”
Now he’s there, knocking on their doors, 
and they do not see what they have done.

How can I tell them that
when they die, they’ll face a
God who hates the shedding of innocent blood?
How can I not tell them?

What should I pray for those who applauded, 
but were duped by the fruit 
of slick, sly promo that said destroying 
someone else’s DNA was a “right?”

And for those who did not choose this,
who lost jobs and will still somehow
care for their parents, kids, neighbors, 
and strangers? For them, I know how to pray.

Bugman

Scooping in eggs, bacon,
coffee and grits at the diner,

he wore a dark leather vest
covered in bright patches.
The back of his cap said
Air Force.

His tidy white beard bounced
under crinkling blue eyes.
Oh, you were in Vietnam
I said.

Yep. Turned eighteen
in sixty-eight. My number
was forty-seven,
so I knew it wouldn’t be long.

My best friend’s dad
was an Air Force Recruiter,
so I figured that’d be
the best way to go.

Got down there
and through Basic.
We was all getting
our assignments.

Some got airplane
mechanic and such. I got
Entomological Engineer.
Sounded important to me,

so I was pretty happy.
‘Bout twelve of us in the
class. Instructor said,
Raise your hand if you

know what entomology
is. Not one hand went up.
I been doing it ever since.
Kinda wish I’da stayed in.

Coulda retired at thirty-nine
with a paycheck.
But I thought I’d had enough
of being told what to do.

Now I ride in honor of them
that didn’t make it back.

Where?

 

Your dad was to meet your mom

in her dark and secret place,

but it was in a petri dish of agar

under searing light and 

 

the care of a white-cloaked bandit.

A frigid face ice cubed you,

plunked you into sterile darkness

where you aged but had no birthday.

 

Shielded eyes brought you to light,

stripped your genes, 

squirted you with the codes of a stranger,

then coddled you with incubation.

 

The news chortled

that you grew the cells 

of the stranger. 

But where are you?

 

 

Begun  4/28/14. Completed 4/10/19

Furry, Striped Sharks

In the morning,
while the light is low

they cruise the waters
of the kitchen floor,

bump my ankle,
and mew for a sip of milk.

 

 

December 7, 2015

Pink

Flops of a pink bow,

muddied by tire treads.

 

Cherry blossoms toss in

Capitol winds.

 

Ripe-bellied mothers

recline, knees spread.

 

Black-boned skeletons 

in lab coats cavort, 

 

spring, lamb-like from tented 

crowning  to tented crowning

 

speaking silky sounds,

and plunge scorpion  

 

fingers into the bodies of

babes, sucking out 

life.

 

So we light our proud 

tall tower 

pink

 

to celebrate 

death.

 

 

 

February 16, 2019

On January 23, 2019, NYC heralded the state’s commitment to unlimited abortion by lighting the top of the new World Trade Center (and three bridges) pink. 

Waiting for Red Dog

Her backbone and ribs,
just knobs the first time
she wove her way across
the grass, only keeping from
falling by momentum.

All that was left of her proud
breed was a neck thick as a man’s thigh.
Her muzzle, drizzled with gray, snuffled
after bird droppings or mouse
carcasses that the cats left.

She lives two doors down,
her owners mired in their haze
of young foolishness and drugs.
“Ah, she eats all the time!”
says one, as he calls her home.

I sit on the cold concrete stoop
out front, wondering if she will
make it this morning.
Her eyes are foggy with cataracts.
She doesn’t notice the cars behind her.

Would they have tied her up?
Will a pickup get her in the dark?
Did that hip finally give out?

I have the porch light on.
She usually comes by sunrise.

Her coat is softer now. On
a good day she gives one
slow wag of her tail, sniffs my hand
and bends to the old aluminum plate.

It’s all I can do not to stand
and call her even though I know
she cannot hear. More and more traffic,
at least it’s getting light enough
for drivers to see her.

I’m chilled, my tea is gone, and the
items of today await.
I’ll come to the door later and
look to see if the mound of food
is cratered by hungry jaws.

 

February 5, 2019

Anywhere

I guide my glassed 

envelope along the weaving

asphalt and see the crowns of

a million trees.

 

I recall the chittering

of a bird and a

small, furry rustle

amid the silent forest.

 

When the leaves go screaming 

off branches and lightning

strobes the windows,

I am sheltered in you.

 

As I stand with my 

toes in the sand,

the salt air 

waving my hair,

 

shushing breakers

settle my heart beat;

I am alone 

with you.

 

When the wind yowls and

the rollers pound, 

they thunder in my veins,

and I drink in your strength.

 

Anywhere, with you, is home.

 

 

 

Fall Equinox, 2018

Probably

I  press out crumpled tinfoil squares,

re-use cereal box liners,

and trim bruises from discounted apples.

 

I fear 

 

for children whose feet are inside, 

only their fingers moving,

for drivers honking seconds 

after the light changes, and

words that make sour

taste sweet.

 

My folks were ten in ‘29. 

They fed on lack and survival.

Dad had his hands in the 

blood and guts of France in ‘44. 

 

The greatest generation?

 

I bet they were.

 

 

 

 

April – September, 2018

Summer Friends

Bare grays go away,

yellow-greens come,

and we long for the appearance

of red summer-ripe 

tomatoes that drip down our chins.

 

Round, felted peaches 

come in sunset hues.

Juice of the first 

bite trickles out our lips.

Soon we see them no more.

 

Small brown-green

globes of scuppernong

jazz the air,

tantalize our taste buds,

and are gone.

 

At least apples are ripening.

Pumpkins will be toted by 

toothy smiles and small

hands that cradle the

trophies to chests.

 

Leaves blush and drop away,

naked arms finger clouds, 

draw down life blood for 

next summer’s friends.

 

 

August, 2018